er now since you've come to your head, I
reckon she'll be passin' you over to me to look after. She's shy that
way. Yes, sir, any time I git bit up by man or beast, or shot up or
knifed, I'll take Rabbit ahead of any doctor you can find. Them
Indians they know the secrets of it. I wouldn't be afraid to stand and
let a rattlesnake bite me till it fainted if Rabbit was around. She
can cure it."

But Mackenzie knew from the odor of his bandages that Rabbit was not
depending on her Indian knowledge in his case, or not entirely so.
There was the odor of carbolic acid, and he was conscious all along
that his head had been shaved around the wound in approved surgical
fashion. He reasoned that Rabbit went about prepared with the
emergency remedies of civilization, and put it down to her schooling
at the Catholic sisters' hands.

"Was there anybody--did anybody else come around?" Mackenzie
inquired.

"Tim's been by a couple of times. Oh, well--Joan."

"Oh, Joan," said Mackenzie, trying to make it sound as if he had no
concern in Joan at all. But his voice trembled, and life came bounding
up in him again with glad, wild spring.

"She was over the day after you got hurt, but she ain't been back,"
said Dad, with such indifference that he must have taken it for
granted that Mackenzie held no tenderness for her, indeed. "I met
Charley yesterday; he told me Joan was over home. Mary's out here with
him--she's the next one to Joan, you know."

Mackenzie's day clouded; his sickness fell over him again, taking the
faint new savor out of life. Joan was indifferent; she did not care.
Then hope came on its white wings to excuse her.

"Is she sick?" he inquired.

"Who--Mary?"

"Joan. Is she all right?"

"Well, if I was married to her I'd give up hopes of ever bein' left a
widower. That girl's as healthy as a burro--yes, and she'll outlive
one, I'll bet money, and I've heard of 'em livin' eighty years down in
Mexico."

Dad did not appear to be cognizant of Mackenzie's weakness. According
to the old man's pathology a man was safe when he regained his head
out of the delirium of fever. All he needed then was cheering up, and
Dad did not know of any better way of doing that than by talking. So
he let himself go, and Mackenzie shut his eyes to the hum of the old
fellow's voice, the sound beating on his ears like wind against closed
doors.

Suddenly Dad's chatter ceased. The silence was as welcome as the
falling of a gale to a man